


You're Dangerous, You're Marvelous

by gunboots



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, M/M, at least to napoleon, slightly AU, spy rom-coms tbh, the one where illya is a lightweight and it is amazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunboots/pseuds/gunboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon first suspects something is amiss when Illya sways just the littlest bit after they've committed treason against both their agencies and the tape quickly becomes ash in the air. </p><p> </p><p>(Five times Napoleon noticed something was a little off about Illya and the one time he knew exactly what was going on.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Dangerous, You're Marvelous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klaudos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klaudos/gifts).



> My very belated gift for the Man From Uncle V-day exchange, hope you like it [klaudos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/klaudos). I'm so terribly sorry for the delay. Also I'm sorry for the random OC, Agent James, who happens to look like [this](http://gunboots.tumblr.com/post/139063430566). Basically, this is Napollya fluff only with alcohol, slight violence, and sometimes cameos from Gaby. Title is from "Marvellous" by Dragonette. Preemptive apology my Russian is super rusty, ~~I'm pretty sure I got the toasts right.~~ I've edited/spell-checked the best to my ability, so excuse any other errors.

Napoleon first suspects something is amiss when Illya sways just the littlest bit after they've committed treason against both their agencies and the tape quickly becomes ash in the air.

They're drinking smooth bourbon that slides down the throat like liquid fire and Napoleon is already considering the logistics of swiping the bottle for later consumption. (Besides, who knows what's going to happen now--he may end up meeting a sniper's bullet as soon as he steps foot out of this hotel). At first, Napoleon thinks the movement is nerves, thinks that someone as deeply patriotic, who feels and embodies the Communist party doctrine into his core as Illya, must be the littlest bit emotional at such a direct disobey of command.

"Alright there Peril?" He can't see past his reflection in Illya's shades and he idly wonders if Illya is about to lunge again, throw out their alliance as quickly as he agreed to it.

Illya shrugs, more freedom than control in the movement. His grip around the crystal tumbler in his hand is iron-tight.

"I'm fine." He says, though he sways once more.

Napoleon opens his mouth to speak but then there's Waverly, and Gaby, and his leash has changed hands and so he files it away for later.

\---

The second time is after their third successful UNCLE mission. Technically it's the fifth mission overall, but since no one has ended up needing immediate medical attention (Illya's bruised his knuckles from where he literally ripped apart a door with his bare hands being the only concession) Napoleon counts it as win.

Gaby is behind the bar counter in their safe house, laughing as she raids the various bottles stashed away and mixing drinks. Napoleon's not sure SHE even knows what she's even making but they're bright and sweet and so strong. Napoleon's on drink three and everything is already starting to get the strange, almost filter of hard liquor. Gaby is on drink five and Napoleon wonders how she's managing to stay upright, even if she is giggling as her hair comes undone to fall around her face.

Illya is still on his first glass of whatever Gaby's imagination is subjecting them to and takes almost cautious sips when he thinks no one's looking. He's refused to move from where he's long given up on his chess game on the table across from him and Napoleon has enough motor skills left in him to sway over and take the other chair.

"You're surprisingly cautious Peril, not your kind of drink?" Illya blinks, almost like he can't decipher what Napoleon is saying at first. Napoleon concedes that perhaps maybe he's a lot more gone than he initially projected, if his words are slurring together and he hasn't noticed.

"Is...good. Taste is not problem..." Illya replies, glancing over to where Gaby is laughing/slightly harassing their local contact, a willowy and deceptively delicate looking Irish UNCLE agent who she is continuously plying with more drinks. Illya and Gaby have never really seemed to address their almost romance, and for various reasons Napoleon hasn't mentioned it. Agent James says something that has Gaby almost double over on the bar, leaning her arm out to steady herself on his shoulder, Illya seems almost...relieved at the action. "It’s good that little Chop Shop girl is happy."

"With James?" And it is sweet, the agent is taller than she is by a foot but in her presence, he practically shrinks in on himself to match her level. Napoleon feels for his liver in the morning as the poor man downs another drink to Gaby's clapping hands and beautific smile.

"Not just him--just happy. I happy." And Napoleon pauses at the sudden slur in Illya's voice, turning to survey him. Illya freezes like he's been caught--he reaches for his glass and takes a loud drink as if to wash the slip-up from his mouth.

"Don't tell me the drink is getting to you Peril--"

"--It is NOT. I am just tired from mission. I carry you on back--both of you." Napoleon hadn't forgotten, the feel of ridges of Illya's muscles under him was something he has a feeling he'll never forget really. Though Illya has a point--the man did have to carry both him and Gaby unconscious to where Agent James and the rest of the awaiting UNCLE retrieval team were stationed.

"Alright, that's fair." If Napoleon notices the slight tremble of Illya's hand as he takes a slightly less enthusiastic sip, he doesn’t comment on it.

\---

The third time is when Napoleon is sharing a bottle of stolen wine during a stakeout around yet another mansion with its own private vineyard. If anything, if Napoleon does make it to retirement, he knows exactly how to build a fortress with practical security measures. He takes an enthusiastic swig for lack of any drink ware, and hands it the bottle to Illya as he surveys the hapless Duke Grenache attempting to bargain with the local crime boss over the price of a few dozen dirty bombs. Gaby is back at the hotel, trying to help compile an exact location of where said bombs are being held with some Italian government contacts.

They've been outside in the vineyard for hours, trying to find an opening to sneak in and at this point, they're both starting to feel it. Napoleon is fully aware that a fine bottle of red isn't going to replace a meal but he's got to have some indulgences. Besides, he highly doubts half a bottle of wine is enough to knock him or Peril out.

"We are on mission." Illya says even as he surveys the bottle dubiously. "This is not acceptable."

"Live a little Peril--it's not going to kill you." Napoleon doesn't bother flinching as the local crime boss begins gesturing wildly with his hands, clearly shouting. The Duke Grenache is responding in his own peacocking fashion that Napoleon can't help but smirk at. "This is either going to end fabulously for the Duke or we're about to witness a murder."

Illya hands him back the bottle, reaching for the binoculars—or at least attempts to, he miscalculates the distance and the bottle falls from his hands. It lands in the dirt, spilling all over the grapes growing before them in a strange sort of irony. Napoleon frowns.

"I understand that you didn't approve but was that necessary?" Because truly it was such a waste. Thankfully no one seems to have noticed their presence even with the loud thunk of the bottle. Illya always did have a flair for the dramatic. "You didn't have to throw it away."

"I did not--" Illya hisses, though his face is a study in shock. He even looks faintly apologetic, and Napoleon considers that for Illya, all steady hands and precision, could have his own clumsy moments.

These were all under consideration...until Illya hiccupped.

At first, Napoleon thinks he imagined it--but then, Illya hiccups again, looking faintly horrified.

"...This is amazing, I didn't think you were capable of hiccupping." Napoleon admits, their mission falling to the backburner. "Was...was that due to the wine?"

"NO." Illya all but growls. The effect is ruined when it ends in a hiccup. It's simultaneously the most mystifying and yet oddly endearing thing he'd ever seen of Peril.

It's rather unfortunate that Duke Grenache’s personal army of guards chose that time to notice they had company.

"Time to make our escape Peril—can you run?"

"I RUN." Illya looks offended even if he sways just the littlest bit.

There's a burst of gunfire and really no time for questions after.

But Napoleon is starting to notice a pattern.

\---

They're back in Dublin again, this time the mission has gone less successfully than last time and both Gaby and Agent James are in the hospital. They're alive, and mostly whole and that's all Napoleon's going to focus on now—if he thinks on it too deeply he'll feel even more than exhaustion seep into his bones.

Waverly's given them the night off and right now they're entertaining themselves at a pub nearby. Illya right eye is swollen shut and his left arm bandaged but he's gripping his glass of Guinness tightly. Napoleon's back still feels like it's on fire and his stitches across his left leg are singing in pain.

"Come along Peril, nights like this we need to drink." He announces laying shots between them. Illya doesn't respond, putting down his mostly full glass. "I insist."

"This is not good idea." Illya sounds defeated even as he lifts his glass. "Давайте выпьем за здоровье."

"На здоровье." Napoleon raises his own in agreement.

\---

On shot seven for Napoleon and shot three for Illya, Napoleon starts to wonder how he did not notice it before.

Illya has become decreasingly less horizontal, and increasingly more flushed. He's also constantly moving between excited Russian and cautious English to the delight and confusion of everyone else in the pub.

Napoleon should say something, really he should--but they all need a break and well, if anything it confirms his theory.

So he laughs as an elderly woman proclaims how much Illya looks like her son and Illya flushes and babbles at her about food and cooking and watches the whole display with the same fondness that's only ever increased in the face of Illya.

Napoleon has a feeling that he should probably ask or say something but can’t find it in him to break this brief reprieve for either of them.

\---

Months later on a rare night off, they celebrate New Year’s Eve in Tokyo. The local UNCLE branch is brand new, but they’re eager and competent and they'll be fine agents yet. Gaby is fully healed, helping herself to another offered drink at the legions of adoring agents at her side. Napoleon and Illya have long since excused themselves to the balcony of the private restaurant UNCLE had sponsored the dinner in, another game of chess between them.

They’d both been subjected to the same treatment as Gaby earlier—Napoleon graciously charming and polite as Illya swayed just the littlest bit—citing a need for ‘fresh air’.

“We should probably talk about this at some point.” Napoleon says, apropos of nothing sometime during game two. Illya’s looking over the board, the rook his hand. He doesn’t bother glancing up to protest. “I don’t know what you mean Cowboy.”

“The fact that Gaby can hold down her drinks better than you can.” Napoleon says, and waits as Illya freezes, his mouth twitching just slightly.

“You noticed.” Napoleon raises a bemused brow at the outright admission. Illya manages to look exasperated even as he sets his rook down to decimate more of Napoleon’s forces remaining. “Lying works better for you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Because Napoleon is gracious and already swimming in an easy win. “Have your superiors ever said anything?”

Illya’s flat stare is already enough, but he decides to add. “You think KGB handlers would drink with agents?”

“…So, no?”

Illya shrugs. “No.  Not on missions—is unprofessional.”

“You drank with me—right after we burned the film.” Napoleon has a notion he’s wandering into dangerous territory now, that there’s a thread that he’s yet to pull—afraid of unraveling the bonds holding him and Illya together.  His instincts have long ago told him he should’ve let the conversation drop before. “You drank with me, the person you were supposed to kill—right after you disobeyed Oleg. You gave me—your enemy—more trust than you gave your own handler. Why would you—”

Instead of flipping the chess table in front of them like Napoleon half-expects, Illya surprises him again. He just gives Napoleon a wry flick of his mouth. He seems…tired.

“—Could ask the same of you. You did not like your handler either—but you did not trust me. I could have easily killed you after you gave me my father’s watch.” Illya says, spine straightening just the littlest bit, like a tiger giving a façade of idleness as its prey crept closer. “I could have killed you and taken disk.”

“But you didn’t.” The possibility had occurred to Napoleon too— even HE isn’t sure why he even bothered with the show of diplomacy in the first place. “I could have done the same to you.”

Illya gives an almost smile. “You would have tried.”

“Still didn’t answer my question, Peril.” Napoleon knew WHY he couldn’t shoot Illya now, knew why he’d been so relieved Gaby had moved on to Agent James and all the other men now fluttering about her and so eager to please. There were a lot of thoughts Napoleon had about Illya, but he wondered if Illya KNEW.  He’d been skirting even approaching Illya—knew exactly how the USSR dealt with behavior they deemed as deviant—homosexuality near the top of the list of sins.

“You think I have an answer?” Now that was a surprise, Napoleon makes eye contact and realizes that Illya seems genuinely unsure how to answer. As if he’d been asking the same questions that Napoleon had of himself. “I don’t. Just like YOU don’t.”

Which, fair enough. Napoleon should just be content with such an honest omission at little cost. But like all things, Napoleon knew that he was greedy when it came to Illya and he wanted just the littlest bit more. “Could it be that you finally fell for my charms?”

Illya rolls his eyes, and reaches for his sake cup—but he doesn’t exactly deny.

“How very American to think that you would endear yourself to me so fast.” Illya comments, near fondness. Napoleon is irritated how much the almost affection means to him. “Typical.”

“That’s not a ‘no’.” Even Napoleon can hear the eagerness in his voice, painfully naïve and so strange in his throat. “Because I’ll have you know Peril—despite your penchant for random acts of violence, irritating adherence to the rules, and strange habit for getting drunk off of barely anything—I find you endearing.”

It isn’t at all what he wanted to say or even how Napoleon pictured (not that he even did--because he couldn’t even bother to entertain the notion of even admitting any of it TO Illya) this to happen but it is and now he’s waiting for a reaction.

Illya coughs up sake.  He barely manages not to spit up all over the table.

…Ok then.

“Alright there, Peril? I know it’s not exactly  _Pushkin_  but—”

“That is not—” Illya slaps his own chest as if to recover the air back into his lungs. He wipes the back of his mouth with the side of his hand, voice hoarse and Napoleon tries not to feel like a criminal at court. “—I was just surprised.”

“I’ll take that over anger or disgust.” Napoleon hadn’t been aware that he was holding in a breath, but he finds himself exhaling.  “You don’t have to read into Peril, I didn’t mean—”

“—You did. That was not why I was surprised.” Illya insists, and he looks surprisingly less tipsy despite the drink count he’s had. “But this is not place to have this conversation. We need to have it somewhere more _intimate_.”

Napoleon almost drops the bishop he just picked up from the board, a valiant sacrifice that was delaying the inevitable. He tries to recover but Illya openly smirks at the motion. “Careful Peril, that almost sounded like you do find me endearing after all.”

“You’re right, my mistake.” Illya agrees, he opens his mouth to say something when there is a raucous cheer from the bar inside and Napoleon laughs at the way they both startle.

“It’s almost time.”

Illya makes a noise of agreement, checking the watch on his wrist. His father’s watch, the one that Napoleon felt like led them all to this point. “Five minutes till Cowboy. Of course, New Year’s celebration is not like in Russia—but is not a bad replacement.”

“I should hope the company is at least a little better.” Napoleon tilts his chin pointedly.

“…Could be worse.” Illya’s blue, blue eyes shining in agreement.

 

\---

+1

It’s been years since that day that Napoleon willingly committed treason and set fire to the computer disk that would have inevitably started world war three.  He and Illya are now full-fledged UNCLE agents, back in Rome and back in the same hotel room where it all started.

This time there’s no dire dread surrounding them like a funeral shroud, nothing like the quiet panic of arrest waiting outside the door, and the promise of secure transportation to take them back. (The unmarked car to take them back to the airport will be around at one, Gaby's probably going to be knocking on their door any minute now.) Instead there is Illya drinking again, but this time, he leans against Napoleon to steady himself as he places the glass back on the counter.

Napoleon’s mouth tastes like Illya and bourbon, his hips ache, and he can see himself reflected in Illya’s sunglasses all over again. Illya’s eyes are masked, but so are the bruises under Illya’s turtleneck, the imprints of Napoleon's teeth on Illya’s skin.

For now, anyway--later though, later Napoleon will run his hands over the terrain of Illya's body all over again. Follow his fingers with tongue and more teeth, drink Illya in till he was drunk himself. Napoleon can't wait to return home.

“Shall we go or do you need a moment to sober up?”

Illya’s response is that bark of a laugh he does when he’s deeply amused, usually at Napoleon’s expense.

“Lead the way Cowboy.”

**Author's Note:**

> [New Years is actually a super big deal in Russia and it is the best party ever](http://masterrussian.com/blog/how-to-celebrate-russian-new-year/)  
>  What Agent James/Jim and Gaby interacting probably looks [like](http://dgleesonsource.tumblr.com/post/137908454498/i-got-a-very-very-nice-text-from-alicia-a-couple) [tbh](http://dameronisaac.tumblr.com/post/139526295660/x). ~~In an alternative universe, Man from Uncle made a million spin-off movies and Domhnall Gleeson was in like three of them.~~


End file.
